Confused Once
by Cap'n Azurai
Summary: "Greg was married once. He was confused." A hopefully-amusing idea of what might have occurred to get from 'once' to 'now'. Could get long, and rather naff title is subject to change!
1. I Don't Know You Any More

_Okay, I'm just tossing this out here on a why-the-heck not. Some notes first: Any OOCness is getting blamed on this being twelve or so years behind canon-time; we'll catch up eventually. Apologies for the prevalence of OCs; I'll work on fitting in more recognisable canon characters as time goes on. Last and most importantly, I don't have a beta for this thing and I would love one, particularly for characterisation and American-ness (British writer doing his best here). If you like what you see and can spare a bit of time to give me a hand, shout up. If you think what you see needs a lot of polishing and you're willing to help, shout up. If you just want to rip me to shreds on you go, nothing to see here. ;)_

_Reviews and concrit are of course also very welcome, even if you're not up for beta-ing._

_Based on one single throwaway comment: 'Greg was married once. He was confused.' My brain runs away with the stupidest little things and turns them into multi-chapter fanfiction novellas. Dammit._

_This is of course chapter one; two is about ready to go; three's in the process of being typed up and then we're up the creek. ;P However, that's enough rambling on from me. On with the show. Action!_

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><p>Dana Corbin knew what she would find inside the smart two-bedroom detached she shared with her husband of eighteen months before she even opened the door. This was less an act of great foresight and more one of habit recognition; every Friday evening was exactly the same. Well, apart from the odd one when he had to stay late at work, but nine times out of ten he got out earlier on Fridays (a make-up act by the bosses, Dana suspected, for making him go in and do Saturday mornings more often than not), and she knew, without having to witness, what would happen.<p>

She turned her key in the lock, raised her voice to holler a friendly greeting over the dulcet tones of Madonna at full blast, hung up her coat and dropped her bag and headed on through to the kitchen, which was blazing out heat and some truly incredible dinner smells. If she had to give him one thing, it would be that he could cook.

If she had to give him two, it'd be that he was apparently the only one in the world left who hadn't noticed he was flamingly queer.

The Madonna soundtrack to their Friday night was abruptly turned down and Greg about-faced to look at her, almost guiltily. "Hi, honey," he offered, vaguely waving a spatula as a greeting. "Good day?"

Dana shrugged slightly. "Same old, same old, to be quite honest. You look happy."

"I'm doing duck this evening," he informed her, as if that was reason enough to be cheerful. "And I had a fabulous day at work."

"Oh?" Dana settled herself at the breakfast bar, knowing better than to try and help him when he was mid-dinner-making flow. Past attempts had resulted in being whipped with tea-towels (very effectively, too) and battered with (mercifully clean and cool) spatulas; she had learned to pick her battles. The thing was, in any kind of ordinary relationship - no, not ordinary, she chided herself; just one where both parties were straight - the game of her not being allowed to help would have ended in... well, probably dinner being delayed at least a few minutes. With them, it finished up with a hug, cheek-kisses, and him jutting a hip playfully and demanding she get out of his kitchen, _honey_.

_Why did I marry you? _she asked herself silently, while he prattled happily on about how brilliant his day had been - something about getting to interview... someone he presumably admired. She was only half-listening. Her attention was focused more on the fact that she knew the answer to her own question, and didn't like it much.

_Because - even though I could tell you were gay even if you hadn't admitted it to yourself yet - you were my best friend, and I thought I was in love with you, and I thought we could make a go of it together_. How wrong she had been. The friendship was still as strong as it ever was, but the relationship side... She didn't even bother thanking him for bringing flowers any more. They were invariably gifts for the lounge or bedroom or occasionally kitchen, not her. The thought was sweet, admittedly, but these were not the actions of a straight man.

And strangely enough, she was almost all right with that. So she had married a flaming queer. At least he was also her best friend. She strongly suspected they were both getting the romantic side of the relationship from other people, and had been surprised by how easily she had come to accept that. Not that she'd ever mention it, of course, just in case he wasn't cheating - she'd feel awful then, even if all she did herself was flirt a little with one of the guys at work, nothing physical - but she had a suspicion. It helped that he flirted with anything on legs, male or female, without even consciously recognising it. And that there was a different sort of glitter in his eye when the someone of the day was male.

"So, there we are, in the hotel bar, almost finished the interview, and I notice his glass is empty and since I'm on company money anyway I say, 'Do you fancy a drink?'. And he turns around and shoots me this amazing little smile and says, 'Sweetie, there's something I fancy more than a drink in here.' ... erm. I mean... Dana? Honey?"

Dana glanced up, having half-heard most of the last sentence or two. "Sorry. Miles away."

The look of relief on Greg's face was positively sweet. "Oh. No problem at all. Really."

"Sorry. You were saying something about the interview and how he fancied something that wasn't a drink."

He paled a touch. "In a sort of anecdotal, oh-look-isn't-that-nice sort of way."

Dana couldn't help a soft laugh, and tuned back into the conversation properly, genuinely interested now. "So you're interviewing a gay guy who thinks you're cute, and...?"

He flushed slightly, probably embarrassed that she had caught on. "So. Anyway... we had another cocktail each, and then I had to sort of hang around until I was anywhere near legal to drive, and he says, 'You know, honey, I've got nothing doing this afternoon' and he stuck around too and we talked _all afternoon_."

Dana quirked an eyebrow, more curious than accusatory. "Where was your camera crew in all of this? Couldn't one of them have driven?"

"_Crew? _Oh, sweetie, I _wish_. I had Chase on sound and he was worse-off than me, and Yasmin on camera and she can't drive. And of course Jim Naismith, who I was interviewing. How _sweet _is he?"

"Very," Dana agreed absently. They were twenty-three years old, him less than six months her senior, and sometimes this still felt like high school. His tendency to squeal like a sophomore over every cute guy in the neighbourhood did nothing to minimise the idea.

Sometimes she wished she didn't care so much, that she could just pack up her things and walk away from him - from this pretend marriage - but the truth was she _did _care. She wasn't in love with him any more, wasn't even sure she ever really had been, and she was darn well convinced he wasn't in love with her either, but he was still the best friend she had ever had and the last thing she wanted was to make him suffer. And she knew he would suffer if she just got up and walked out. She knew him well enough to realise was confused about his feelings at best; outright in denial, at worst. Either way he needed a friend about now, not a judgemental ex-wife.

He had gone back to preparing their dinner while she was lost in thought, and the slam of the oven door as the perfectly-presented duck went in shook her out of the introspective mood. Within a minute, he had washed his hands and appeared almost magically behind her, rubbing gentle circles on her tense shoulders. "Enough about me, anyway, sweetie," he said. "Tell me about your day."

"I've been in the office all day," she told him, knowing he would catch the quiet resentment in her tone and hoping he wouldn't mind it too much. Her recent promotion to junior copy-editor meant more money, more responsibility and a whole heap more office time, and as much as she loved her job she still sometimes hated Greg a little bit for getting to go out and do interviews and reports and God knew what else. Besides, he was on TV. Dana was pretty enough, but she didn't have the kind of confidence he did to stand in front of a camera and do his thing, and she often wished she did. Some day, she was convinced that he was going to be a star anchor on one of the 24/7 shows, probably Fox News. She had told him that once. He had bounced and made an expression probably best described as 'squee!'.

"At least you have the weekend off," Greg pointed out reassuringly, still working out the knots in her shoulders with deft, confident strokes. "I'm at work tomorr- _oh_, I nearly forgot, oh my _god_ how _could _I?"

"Forgot what?"

"Studio!" She could hear him beaming through the tone of his voice, and for a second the massage turned into an excited pattering across her shoulders. "I get _studio _time!"

Dana swivelled on the seat to smile up at him. "Honey, that's great! Well done. What are you doing?"

"You know the little reports on the high street economy I've been doing?" he said. Dana nodded. Those darn reports had taken up a lot of his time and energy for the past month or so, mostly evenings and Sundays, not to mention the extra time he had been spending at the studio so he could use their software to edit and post-process the mini documentary.

"Well," he went on. "I was doing a little work on it at lunchtime and one of the bosses only walked past and asked me to do a five-minute in-studio report to be shown, get this, a week on Sunday. Primetime!"

"Evening news?" Dana guessed.

"Tea time!" he said brightly. "When _everybody _will be watching. Isn't that brilliant?"

"That's..." Dana paused, searching for the right word. "Honey, that's fabulous. I told you you'd get studio time, didn't I? Some day you're going to steal Chris Baker's job."

"I'd rather have Maddie Greener's," Greg mused. "So I could sit _next_to Chris Baker six nights a week, plus a half-hour every lunchtime, plus special reports..."

"Isn't he an utter you-know-what, though?" Dana said. "I'm sure you've mentioned before that rumour has it he's a complete..."

Greg coughed as if caught out. "Well. Yes. Apparently he can be a bit, err..."

"A bit of a complete dick?"

"Ye-es. That would be one way of putting it."

Dana rolled her eyes, amused. Complete dick or not - and never having met the man, she couldn't have said with any authority - she did know, from watching him and Maddie Greener presenting the local evening news every night for the past however long, that he was one heck of a good-looking silver fox.


	2. That Strange Relationship

It wasn't that he'd never been in the actual W-ANG-TV studio before, or even the Channel 3 News set. On the contrary, Greg had spent more hours than he would have cared to admit to hanging about there, hoping for either someone to notice him and decide he was the perfect candidate for promotion (the more conscious thought), or, on a less fully-realised note, for Chris Baker to notice him and decide they should do dinner. Had he been fully consciously aware of the latter, he would have felt a pang of guilt at the idea of having a (romantic, ideally) dinner with anyone who wasn't Dana. And then probably spent twenty minutes quietly panicking about what such thoughts _meant_.

Even though he knew, deep down, just as well as Dana did. He hadn't yet figured out that _she_knew, and he tried hard not to think it himself most of the time, but this was more than confusion. Hell, this was more than being bi-curious. This was outright full-on poofter gayboy all-singing, all-dancing homoqueerness, and on the rare, usually three-o'clock-in-the-morning-with-Dana-snoring-softly-in-her-pyjamas-beside-him occasions he let himself admit that, it didn't even sound too bad.

Well. Apart from the small issues of being Christian, Republican and (he would have said, oblivious to his own gentle flamboyance) completely repressed. But if you could ignore those bits...

In any case, walking into the live studio on the following Sunday morning was a completely different experience to anything he'd come across in the newsroom before. For a start, Chris Baker was there, leaning on the newsdesk talking to a grip, looking like a middle-aged Adonis — tall, slender, broad-shouldered, and with just the _tiniest_faint hint of crow's feet that mercifully accentuated his amazing eyes, rather than detracting from the overall effect. Chris Baker and Maddie Greener didn't do Sundays. There was a Langley Falls News on Sunday team for that.

But there he was, in all his gorgeousness, with the faint smirk that usually precluded an almost-sarcastic, "Thanks for that report, _whoever_" — 'whoever' being replaced with the relevant reporter's name, but the implication of 'The teleprompter told me that, because I'm too important to remember who you are' perfectly clear — and gave Greg a little flutter in his chest every time. And he looked up when Greg walked in, clipboard in hand, cue-notes already prepared and clipped to it because his was the kind of report that didn't get a teleprompter to help. And then he _spoke_.

"Greg Corbin, right? Chris Baker, though you knew that, of course." He offered a hand and Greg shook it. Chris's handshake was firm, cool and professional, though Greg wondered if he was just wishful-thinking imagining him holding on for a second longer than was strictly necessary. "You're going to be on at twelve-twenty or so, give or take a minute either side. You've got seven to eight minutes to fill. I'll cue you in, go for it, do the spiel and roll the tape, then lead back to me. Got that?"

"Got it," Greg managed to peep out, grateful for the heads-up (actually, grateful Chris Baker had _talked to him!_), but privately thinking it didn't sound that much different to doing a live report outside. Cued in from the studio, give the spiel, lead back to the anchor. Easy.

When the great digital clock on the back of the studio wall, opposite the newsdesk, clicked over to twelve exactly and the countdown timer ticked down the twenty seconds of the Sunday lunchtime news introduction music — Greg knew it well enough to time every note in his head, even visualise the leading credits — _that_was when things started looking less breezy and easy. And the twenty minutes between now and Chris cueing him in (give or take a minute either side) seemed like a lifetime or three.

He was hustled onto the studio stage, out of Camera One's line, by a helpful assistant at seventeen minutes past, and stood there with damp palms and a dry throat for another two minutes before Chris flicked a glance in his direction, while the cameras were focussing on Maddie Greener. _Thirty seconds_, he mouthed. _Be brilliant_.

Without the help of any kind of tonality, and with Chris's impassive newsreader expression never flickering, Greg had no idea if that was an order or an encouragement. He nodded, regardless, and dared a tiny smile.

And got one back.

Heart flutter.

Chris was already looking straight at Camera One when its red light came back on to indicate he was live. "Next up," he announced, "we have a special report on the economy. Right now, we're living with the lowest unemployment rate and lowest inflation in thirty years, higher home ownership and reduced welfare rolls — but let's go beyond the rhetoric. Greg Corbin has more in this special report on the economy right here in Langley Falls. Greg?"

And that was it. The red light came on over his own camera's wide-eyed lens and suddenly, this whole surreal thing was no different to being out in the street giving a live report on whatever local event he had been sent out to cover that day. The only difference was cueing in the pre-recorded footage, to be played on the massive whitescreen behind him, and he had a clicker like the weather girls used for that.

It went off _perfectly_. He couldn't help grinning like an idiot as soon as he had finished saying, "And now back to you, Chris," and Camera Four's red light blinked off as One's went back on. That had felt fantastic. Better than fantastic. Awesome. Amazing. _Fabulous_.

"Well," Chris Baker said when they finished, after the final clapper board had clapped and someone in the depths of the shadows behind the cameras had hollered 'Credits rolling!' "That went well. Fancy a drink?"

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><p>He swore up and down for a week afterwards that he really had done his best to slip in quietly, and Dana mostly smiled and nodded and said it was fine, even though she had been up half of Sunday night worrying and then been late for work on Monday because she'd had a couple of hours of sleep at best. It was difficult to be annoyed when he seemed so happy, though. She couldn't resist and called him on it the following Friday evening, while he was making dinner, as per routine.<p>

"You've been buzzing all week," she said casually, glancing up from that morning's newspaper. He had, of course, finished the crossword. Damn.

He couldn't quite hide the flash of guilt quickly enough. "I suppose because Sunday went well," he said, not quite innocently enough. "The studio bit, I mean. It was really good..."

She knew. She had been watching the live broadcast as it went out, just days (or maybe a lifetime) ago. And he had told her. On Tuesday, when the hangover had faded.

She also knew him well enough to know that wasn't all. "That and Chris Baker taking you out after," she said lightly.

He positively flinched, only slightly, but it was there. Dana bit her lip, not quite able to make herself look up from the crossword. Each square had a letter in his not-entirely-tidy, backslanted, somewhat loopy handwriting. If she had been in a mood to stereotype, she would have said Greg's writing was more girly than hers.

"He's gay, isn't he?" she said nonchalantly. Or trying for nonchalant, anyway. Despite the twist in the base of her stomach that told her everything she needed to know, it would still hurt to hear it.

She expected him to agree, turn away, maybe reach for a guilty cigarette (an occasional habit; they both swore they'd quit before they had kids, safe in the knowledge that would never happen). Or maybe to deny it and change the subject. She did not expect him to set the roasting tray with its yet-uncooked mixed Mediterranean vegetables down quietly on the counter, take a seat opposite her at the breakfast bar, and stare her out until she was forced to meet his gaze.

"Yes," he said. "And very few people know that, and he'd like to keep it that way."

"How do you know?" she asked, surprised at herself for how deeply she was hurt by the betrayal she was anticipating. As if it hadn't been coming since before they were even married. As if it was betrayal at all, when in truth it had probably been her fault for saying yes to a confused gay man's proposal in the first place.

Greg didn't answer for a long moment, looking down at the countertop as if it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the universe. "He didn't exactly _tell_ me," he admitted eventually, and then paused again.

Dana nodded. "I kind of thought..."

"You know, don't you?"

The question caught her off-guard. Knew what? That he and Chris Baker had done God knew what last Sunday night? She darn well suspected, but something about his tone made her pause before she said 'yes'.

"About what?" she said carefully.

He still wasn't meeting her eye. "About ... me?"

"I know a lot of things about you, Greg Corbin," she said gently, reaching a hand across the breakfast bar. He hesitated a moment, then offered his own back, intertwining their fingers in an almost impossibly platonic tangle. "What exactly?"

"I didn't say yes," he said sincerely. "To Chris, I mean."

"But you wanted to."

"I... think I did, yes."

Dana had seen Gregory Corbin look vulnerable precisely twice before in all the years she had known him. One of those had been at a funeral; the other in the parking lot of their high school after he had nearly had his head staved in by a gang of footballers who hadn't appreciated a friendly suggestion to let the school gymnastics team — which he had, until precisely nineteen hours after that fight, captained — practise with the cheerleaders and officially support the team too. He did a good line in puppy-dog eyes when he was trying to be cute, but real vulnerability was rare.

"Greg," she said quietly. "Did you know you were gay when you married me?"

"I'm not gay!" he protested, sounding so shocked she really thought he believed it on some level. "I'm just... well..."

Dana couldn't help it. She knew it was inappropriate and something deep in side of her said what she _should_ have done was cry, but she couldn't have stopped the laugh if her life had depended on it. He stared at her, bemused and, to her shame, looking somewhat hurt. "Greg, hon," she managed, choking down the giggles and doing her best to sober up. "Sweetheart, you're the gayest most gorgeous queen I've ever seen in my life. You're more of a wife than I am. The only sport I can persuade you to watch is soccer and that's only because it's got twenty-two guys with nice legs running around in short-shorts!"

"Hardly conclusive evidence," he sniffed in the sort of tone that only added to the 'conclusive evidence' pile.

Dana bit down a smile, wondering if she was in a state of 'laugh or you'll cry' and deciding it was best not to think about it too deeply just now. "Honey, how long have I been your best friend for? I've known longer than you have."

"You still married me," he said, just defensively enough that she thought they might be getting somewhere.

"Maybe we were both confused," she suggested gently, squeezing his hand a little. He squeezed back, finally looking up at her again.

"Do you want a..." He trailed, the final word apparently too raw for him too. "Or... I mean... do we...?"

"Split up?" Dana filled in, no more keen to say the Big D Word than he was. "I don't know. I mean... staying together isn't exactly fair on either of us, but this is Virginia, you know? It's almost safer if we do..."

He raised a tiny smile at that. "If you're right, being married isn't going to fool anyone. Didn't fool Chris Baker."

"If I'm right about what?"

"Honey, you did _kind_ of just imply that I'm flaming and the only one who hasn't noticed..."

"...is you?" Dana grinned.

"I would hardly say I'm flamboyant," he said prissily, sitting pretty in a pristine linen apron bearing the legend 'Does My Butt Look Big In This' and a pale pink shirt, a decade ahead of metrosexuality and wholly oblivious. "I'm just... me."

"You're flaming, babe," Dana said, surprised at how easy this was. She thought it would probably hit her later, and yet in another sense there was nothing to hit. This was only finally giving voice to something they had both known, consciously or not, for a very long time.

"You think?" he asked. It was almost a preen. Dana nearly laughed again, but realised just in time that he did not consider this a laughing matter.

She nodded, sure he could tell from the glitter in her eyes that she was choking back laughter, if the snort that escaped didn't give it away enough.

For a second he looked hurt — genuinely, not his put-on kicked-puppy look — then a tiny half-smile twitched the corner of his mouth up and within a minute they were both laughing hysterically. "Oh God," he choked out, brushing away a tear. "This is ridiculous. Honey, this is _past_ ridiculous and — and—"

"Into insanity?" she finished for him, and they both stopped laughing.

"You still finish my sentences," he said softly.

"You're still my best friend," she replied.

They were both quiet for a while before he stood up and turned back to the Mediterranean vegetables. "So what do we do?" he asked, so quietly that she hardly heard.

"Split up, I guess," she said, more reluctantly than she had hoped the words would come out.

"I don't know if I want to," he murmured.

"What, you'd rather cheat on me instead?"

That had come out too sharply, and he shot back in kind, glaring daggers at her over his shoulder. "I told you, I didn't say yes when Chris Baker asked me to—"

"But you wanted to," she cut him off. "Even if you're running scared from that now. And Chris Baker is just one guy, Greg. What happens next time when you don't say no?"

He shut the oven door on the veggies a little harder than was strictly necessary and eyeballed her. "You remember our wedding day?"

"Yes?" she said, wondering where this was going.

"I took a vow in front of a hundred and fifty witnesses and God Himself," he said firmly. "And I'm not a cheater."

"Greg," Dana sighed. "You're also not a straight man. And I have just as much faith as you do but I don't believe for one second that God would want us to— to _shit_ on the sanctity of marriage (and you know I don't swear much, Greg) by pretending this is anything more than a cover story."

He froze at that, blinking at her in wide-eyed rabbit-headlights panic. "I suppose," he said at last, "at least we're not Catholic. We _could_... I mean... in theory..."

"Get divorced, yes," Dana said. "Besides, we'd have a lot more to worry about if we _were_." She glanced down at her flat stomach with a half-smile and, reminded by their empty we'll-quit-for-the-kids promises, tossed a half-pack of cigarettes from her bag across the counter as a reconciliatory gesture.

He smirked, the pissy mood dissipating as quickly as it had come on. Apparently today he wasn't in a mood to hold a grudge, which she supposed was a minor relief. God knew the man could sulk like a pro when he pleased. "Honey, we could probably swing for annulment rather than divorce, considering how often we consummate this marriage. It must've been nearly eighteen months since... Well. Even if we _were_ Catholic I doubt the condom situation would be one of our problems."

"Has it been eighteen months?" Dana asked, eyebrows raised. "How have you not exploded?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm a man, sweetie, not a horny teenager. Besides..." He sighed, looking away. "This whole _confusion _thing plays havoc with your sex drive."


End file.
